


got the feeling I may have lit the very fuse (you were trying not to light)

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Dehumanization, Depression, Dissociation, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Execution, Experimental, F/M, Mental Breakdown, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, Murder, Not A Fix-It, Psychological Trauma, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop, Time Travel, Unreliable Narrator, to a degree i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-07-25 23:35:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20034190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: you were a stranger in my phone book / i was acting like i knew / cause i had nothing to lose..Makoto Naegi would never kill.....right?





	1. i. tongue tied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _i loved you then / and i love you now_.
> 
> loop one.

“I promise I’ll get you out of here, maizono-san.”

* * *

Theres a dead body in front of Makoto.

It looks like a puppet whose strings were suddenly cut, crumbled across his bathroom floor. So pale, face so colorless, skin more ashen that it’s ever been in life. A porcelain doll. That’s what it looks like.

‘It.’ Who used to be a ‘she.’

Used to be a person, alive and warm, with friends and family and a warm smile. Used to be _sayaka_.

And Makoto wonders if he’s dreaming. Because this can’t be reality, can it? Such a thing, it’s too cruel, its too heartless. But he can smell the rust of her blood, can feel the floor beneath his feet. This is real. This is reality.

He blacks out.

* * *

Kyouko is the only one who doesn’t suspect him.

It... hurts. That they’d condemn him, without even looking at all the evidence, all the possibilities. He knows that they do need to suspect _someone_, by the end of this, but to be the suspect right away, every defense he says pushed away, it hurts. He was just starting to get to know these people, bond with them. And yet they accuse him without a second thought. 

He knows they don’t know each other well. But he still thought they’d at least give him time to speak, to defend himself, without jumping to conclusions. 

....

Maybe that was too much to ask for.

At least Kyoukos there. She keeps him on task: look for evidence, find sayakas killer. He feels like he’d be lost without her, not knowing where to start. Not knowing what to even say to try and prove his innocence.

He never thought he’d have to prove his innocence, before, for a murder. 

With only one ally, mysterious and closed off.

Kyouko seems like a good person, at least. Stand offish, but he doesn’t know what’s happened in her life. A little too comfortable with dead bodies, but, again—he didn’t know her story. He wasn’t too naive to recognize that people go through hardships, even outside of bizarre situations like this. 

...

Or maybe, he was, in a way. Because as the evidence piles up, apart of him, in the back of his mind, wonders if he even knew sayaka at all.

* * *

He knows.

He knows that sayaka was trying to frame him. Kyouko has pointed out all the evidence, has tried to prompt him to put it together. He knows that she knew from the start, he knows that she probably realized he wouldn’t accept it. She’s trying to make him accept it.

And on some level, he does. He can’t deny what’s right in front of him, even if he wants to. The betrayal festers in his heart like sadness. But apart of him, can’t blame her. 

Makoto isn’t anyone important. No one would miss him, except for his family. But the whole world sung for sayaka—she had dreams, and ambitions, when Makoto was just... average. Why would she believe his promise? There was no proof he’d pull it off. And her band mates, they were in danger—Makoto knows the temptation in that. For a brief second, as he watched his sisters smiling face, disappear from sight, he...

He wondered what he was capable of if pushed. He wondered if the mastermind would push him.

But he knows that he’d never, never kill someone in this cruel game. He promised. He promised he’d get her out. 

Yet it’s meaningless, isn’t it? Because she’s dead, now. And he knows he’ll carry her with him forever.

He needs to end this trial. He needs to find her killer—he needs to stop this torture. His mouth won’t move.

He can’t force his words out. Can’t spell out sayakas crime. Can’t condemn her, can’t point his finger at what he knows is the truth.

His heart, his life—it feels drained. His mind is fuzzy, mouth unresponding.

This is a bad end.

Even now, he wants to believe in her. Wants to say there’s no way she could do it, or if she did, there were reasons why– and she hesitated, in the end, didn’t she? That’s why... **he** was still here. The killer.

That’s why this trial was happening.

But makoto can’t get anything past his lips, at all.

“Ttttiiiimes up!” The bear chimes, “It’s voting time!” Kyouko curses, loud and viscous.

His face appears, the words taunting him.

**MAKOTO NAEGI WAS VOTED GUILTY.**

Dread pools in his stomach. Monokuma laughs. “Aw, too bad! You’ve got it _wrong~.”_

“W-what? Then makoto wasn’t the killer?!”

“B-but we’ve been accusing him this whole time—”

Its all **white noise** to him. “Only two people voted for the real killer!” Monokuma taunts, “Congradulations, Leon, you Graduate with flying colors!”

“L-Leon?!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me—!”

“Nooope, sorry!” The bear continued to sing, delight and malice mixing in its voice. “Poor makoto was innocent all along! And all you _meanies _kept accusing him! So much for friendship, huh?”

“Shit.”

“Makoto, I’m so sorry!”

“Oh, fuck, what did we _do_—”

He says nothing, blankly staring on ahead. Monokuma cackles louder. “Pupupu! Only Kyouko and him voted correctly, isn’t that so despairing! Well, a promise is a promise! Leon, please make your way to the elevator! Not that you have a choice.” Monokuma laughs at his joke, as a chain snares it’s way onto Leon’s neck, dragging him to a elevator.

The elevator snaps close with a clang. It moves, but they can hear Leon’s voice. “Wh-what— no- it can’t be— I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Sobs and screams ring out.

“W-what did you do?” Someone asks. Monokuma looks at them blankly. “Hm? Me? I just fulfilled the bargain. I told him the truth.”

Suddenly, his mechanical maw opened, smile growing impossibly. “Besides, what do you bastards care? You’re about to be _punished_.”

“Y-you mean... k-killed?”

“Hmm..” monokuma hummed, a distinct, mocking sound. “When did I ever say that? It’d be waaay to boring for the game to end so soon!”

A collar wraps around his neck, like a snake that caught its prey. Insnaring him. Monokuma smiles dark and malicious.

“No, execution is a punishment reserved for the one voted as the blackened... and you all voted for dear ol’ Makoto Naegi, didn’t you?” It cooed it, as horror dawned on the others faces. “Your punishment... is the knowledge that you doomed your poor, innocent classmate, and sent him to his death. Fitting, isn’t it~?”

Chains fling him backwards, a door opening up to swallow him whole, and a execution begins.

The breeze whispers sorry, but Makoto cannot hear it.


	2. ii. chlorine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _fall out of formation / i plan my escape from walls they confined / rebel red carnation / grows while I decay._
> 
> loop two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not... super happy with this, actually. I’ve reedited it a lot, but it still doesn’t quite feel right. But I think it’s as best as it can be at this point

_Makoto could hear the bang of the compressor, loud and ringing in his ears._

_It was a haunting sound, hovering over him, buzzing in his mind. A death sentence he couldn’t escape, a fate he couldn’t untangle himself from. He was tense with anticipation, green orbs shifting side to side, trying to catch the eyes of his fellow classmates._

_He didn’t know why. Maybe he wanted to reassure them, in the end. Or maybe it was a plea, desperation clawing at his heart._

_Makoto Naegi didn’t want to die._

_Even if he tried to plead, to look at them, trying to convey what he cannot say, he knows it’s futile, though. No matter what expression he wore, no matter what desires festered in his heart, nothing would change. _

_This was the end._

_Kyoukos the only one who looks at him. Everyone else looks away, shamefaced, unable to even face what they’ve done. ‘I’m sorry,’ Kyouko mouths, and makoto tries to smile at her, tries to reassure her, because it’s not her fault, not really, but—_

_Bang. He flinches at the sound behind him. “Wow, lucky again~!” Monokumas voice rings out, his grin widening, a cat playing with its food, a predator that knows it’s prey is trapped. “Hey, can you answer what sayakas favorite color was?” He quizzed, and Makoto wracks his brain._

_He can’t._

_Bang. _

_It’s the third time he’s itched towards the compactor, and he fears that one of these times, he’ll stop below it. _

_“Aw, even though you claim you love her, you don’t know anything, do you~?” The sickly sweet voice grates in his nerves, and he grits his teeth. _

_It’s nearly there, upon him, again. Bang. It echoes within the room._

_“Say, when do you think you’ll luck will run out, Mako-Chan~?” His skin crawls. “Well, no matter— do you know her favorite food, at least? Her favorite book? What she’d do on the weekends without practice, the names of her band mates?”_

_No. He didn’t._

_Monokuma laughs. “Jeez, how pathetic... Did you even know her at all?”_

_He wants to protest, but he’s not sure he can. Someone sobs in the background._

_His luck runs out on number seven._

_They can all tell, as he sits in the chair below the compress, about to be crushed. Monokuma grins, sadistic excitement gleaming in his eyes._

_“One final question, my dear Naegi— do you know when she first started using you, planning to commit a murder and frame you?”_

_His classmates gasp. Tears prickle his eyes, and he laughs._

_“As soon as I promised her I’d get her out of here.”_

_Monokumas face flashes with interest. “Correct.” The bear seems to weigh his words, even as he grins something maniacal. “And yet... you didn’t say anything, during the trial, even when you figured it out.” There’s something shrewd in his eyes. “Is this what people mean, when they say love is blind?” He cackles suddenly. “Looks like you **did** know something about her, in the end.”_

_The only reward he gets is the press coming down._

_This time, it makes a splat. _

* * *

Makoto Naegi wakes up on a desk.

* * *

He wonders if it’s a dream at first. Wonders if he’s dead, if this is the afterlife, sent to punish him for failing her. He wonders if before was a dream, if nothing about this is real—wonders if he’ll wake up gasping for breath in the house his family shared, Komaru peering down curiously from the top bunk bed, eyes alight with concern. He wonders if that would make him feel better.

Monokuma shows up again (_the bang of a press, ringing in his ears—_) the same words he spoken last time, and everything feels far too real, to makoto.

* * *

Even knowing what’s to come, when sayaka smiles at him, reaches her hand out for him to take, he latched onto it without a thought. It feels equally like a death sentence, and a second chance. Even if this was a dream, a false reality created within his own mind, he knows he’ll try to save her all the same. It’s just who he is: normal and average in every way, but with a bleeding heart few posses.

Optimistically, he hopes that the smile she gives him is real, as real as her palm in his. Optimistically, he hopes he can keep it that way.

A second chance sounds nice.

He should have known better than that.

* * *

It’s Monokuma’s fault she did this.

The words sooth the cracks on his soul, a balm to calm his frenzied mind. He knows she’s not absolved of guilt, but the words bring a comfort to him: he knows she wouldn’t have done something like this, if it wasn’t for monokuma pushing her.

Its all he can really think about, as he watches his own motive video, blank faced.

He could really understand where sayaka was coming from, at least partially. He knows how protective he can get over Komaru, knows how far he’d be willing to go for the people he loved. It was the whole point of this motive: their loved ones were hostages, in this sick game. 

Hostages, and that was being optimistic. 

Still, though, he reminded himself. There was no way to prove that any of what monokuma showed was true. To kidnap, or harm, so many loved ones of such high profile people—such a thing was hard to believe. But then again, many things about this situation were hard to believe.

How much influence did their capture have, to imprison them here, in what, for all intensive purposes, appeared to be hoped peak? It didn’t make any sense, too many pieces missing to even outline the puzzle.

It was possible.

It was possible that the mastermind behind all this, could have taken their loved ones.

And that simple possibility was enough.

Sayaka had more on the line, too, he knew. Her band mates were in danger—and with them, so was the very goal she’s worked towards all her life. More than people, monokuma hold sayakas whole dream hostage.

People come, just like before. The watch their videos, just like before.

Apart of makoto wished he had just smashed them.

Sayakas face go from normal to pale to ashen, as her panic builds, desperation cracking her perfectly crafted mask.

This was it. The moment that ruined everything.

When she runs off, he doesn’t hesitate to follow.

* * *

_This time_, he thinks, _I’ll be enough._

He’ll be better, find the right words, chose the correct things to say and do. Sympathize, explain himself more—he’ll stop it, stop her mind from jumping to something so unthinkable.

_ I’ll comfort her, and it’ll be enough._

But deep down, he knows it won’t be. He knows as soon as she plasters that fake smile back on her face, and his lips spill the same empty promises as before.

He’ll never be enough. Not for her.

She’ll always choose her dream over him.

The fact that he didn’t care, anyways, the fact that he still loved her—maybe that was a special kind of **despair**, too.

* * *

He’s not sure why he asks it, not really. Maybe because, apart of him, weary and tired, knew monokuma was right. In the days that he spends with her, sayaka says so much, and yet nothing at all. Whatever the reason, it claws at him, forcing him to open his mouth.

Its a simple question. Mundane, maybe even a little childish. But it comes out like cotton, and it feels like pulling teeth.

“What’s your favorite color?”

She smiles at him, the same smile he’s been receiving for days, now. He knows that it’s a smile that hides her face like a mask, and yet he can feel himself relaxing. 

“Most people assume I like pink, because I wear it so much,” she paused, her grin widening, even as her cheeks blushed with a dusting of pink, “but the truth is... I like green much better.”

Could someone fake such a blush? Could someone make their eyes reflect moonlight, playfulness mixed with a genuine shine? He didn’t know. Her smile was as bright as the sun.

Was she already planning Leon’s murder?

Was she already planning to frame him?

“Come to think of it... your eyes are green, aren’t they? Maybe it’s destiny!” 

It was definitely teasing, and yet somehow, she made it feel genuine, too. Makoto could only look away, heart in turmoil. “...maybe.”

He wondered if what she said was true, wondered if he could believe in her shinning eyes, and sunlight smiles, that tricked him once before. Wondered if he was just a pawn to manipulate to her, or if any of her sincerity ringed true.

He didn’t have an answer. 

* * *

“Could... could I sleep in your room tonight?” Her voice is soft and hesitant, uncertainty maring her features, and all he can think is, it’s happening again. Sayaka is still at his door step, telling him a tale he now knows isn’t true. 

Her face is a colidascope. Briefly, he can see the emotions shift, and settle. Fluid, gets disjointed in colors, all wrong, from the lense of reality. Was that there, before—this apprehension, this hesitating fear? He can’t recall, can’t even tell if he’s not just reading into things, now, imagining uncertainty where there isn’t any.

His face is no doubt pinched in thought, indiscernible. He can tell by the way she shuffles, fidling with the edges of her shirt. Is it real? Is any of it? 

He didn’t want to doubt. He didn’t like to doubt, didn’t like these paranoid thoughts, this second guessing.

He wets his lips, mouth dry. It felt like cotton, trapped in his throat with no way out. “You should... come in. We should talk.”

He doesn’t know what he’s saying, really. He doesn’t have a plan, doesn't have a solution. All he has is a burning hope suffocating his lungs, making it hard to breath.

“I-I guess,” sayaka murmurs, nervousness creeping into her gaze, “but I don’t know what else to talk about, I...” she shifts her gaze away. “I’m really sorry, I’m pretty shaken, I don’t really know what to say.”

He nods in a mockery of understanding, even as his mind races with questions, suspicions he wishes he didn’t have. “I know,” he tries to sound sympathetic, tries to come off as understanding and patient, like he’s not cracking slowly. The sympathy isn’t that hard, really: it’s there, ringing out true in the air, like the toll of a church bell.

But its for different reasons than she wants, all built on top of knowledge he shouldn’t have. Once more, he wonders if this is all some fever dream, as he tries to smile at her encouraging.

It feels as much as a lie as hers.

It’s quiet, as soon as she sits. The bed dips under her, a faint noise he knows is from springs, and then nothing. They stare at each other, the silence seeping into their bones.

He bites his lips, unsure. “Do you think... one of our classmates was trying to break it?” Hesitating, he plays along with her lie. It makes him feel guilty, but he pushes it down. He knows he has no reason to feel that way, knows that he hasn’t done anything wrong. Even as he feels like a liar, he knows that it’s necessary.

This was what was needed, right now. He wouldn’t toss away his shot to save her.

“I... I don’t want to accuse any of them, really. I-it could have been monokuma messing with me, but...” her face shows distress, twisted up in ways he _wants_ to believe. He _wants_ to believe in **her**_, _at the end of the day, but his bitter knowledge hold him back. He feels like his heart will go rancid. “But I don’t... and I feel horrible for saying this, but I don’t know any of our classmates, makoto. I only know you. The others...” she shakes, clutching herself. “I can’t count on them, like I can for _you_.”

And– _oh_, if that’s not a ironic sentence, ringing more true than she could know.

The words do nothing to aliviate him of the knot in his stomach. He can’t tell if it’s manipulation, or the truth she believes. Maybe, it’s a crude mixture of both. He feels sick all the same. “I...” 

He forces a smile through the nausea, something bittersweet tugging at his chest. “I don’t think I really agree that you can’t trust anyone else, but... you’re right that you can count on me.” She smiles at that, sweet, but something in him screams that he’s prey, falling into her trap, hunted. “I’m.. I’m going to get you out of here, okay? Just like I promised earlier. I wasn’t... I wasn’t just saying that, okay? I _will_. I will get you out.” Determination, grim and unwavering, rushes his veins. Even if she doesn’t understand, doesn’t know it yet—this is a promise he intends to keep. “So, you know... you can come to me about anything, okay? You don’t have to handle it on your own, I know.. I know you probably had to handle things by yourself, before, with your career, but... you really don’t have to now. I promise. You don’t have to handle this alone.”

Her smile falters, something shadowing over her face. He hopes his voice isn’t too desperate, too pleading. He hopes that she’ll listen. He‘s afraid of over playing his hands.

Someone else would be better for this. Someone smarter, and better with words—kyouko, or Celeste, or anyone besides him. Someone who could see through lies, manipulation, could wiggle their way out of this, with no lives lost.

But it’s him regardless, so he shows his cards, and says, “You don’t have to do anything rash.”

Her smile falls completely from her face, for the briefest of a second, and something like _fear_ screams within his blood. Soon, though, before he can process, the smile reappears, just as bright as before, though the way her eyes gleam does little to aliviate his tension. “I know that, makoto,” there’s something almost forceful, biting in her tone, “you don’t have to worry. I’m relying on you, you know?”

And makotos knows that’s the truth. It doesn’t make him feel better.

Sayaka continues on, coxing this time, face softened. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be in your room, safe from any intruders.”

Something shrivels up in his heart. 

He nods his head, something breaking crawls up his face, forced. He knows in this moment, no matter how he follows up, he’s failed. She’ll stay in his room, and he’ll stay in hers—and everything else would be her choice.

In the end, he couldn’t do anything.

He shakes his head, forcefully, as the door clicks shut. Sayakas smile weighs on his mind as he exits, back leaning against his door with a sigh. The halls feel unwelcoming. “No,” he murmurs to himself, face frowning, looking at the door plate that should have been on his own room. “No, I got to have more faith. I did what I could. Surely, surely... surely what I said will get through.”

He wanted to have faith in sayaka. He wanted to believe in her, believe in that smile he now knows so well is fake.

Maybe that makes him a fool.

* * *

She doesn’t come to breakfast the next morning.

This time, the bodies eyes are wide open, blue eyes red and irritated, as if she was holding back tears.

* * *

“What’s sayakas favorite color?” The bear asks, as the bangs of a compress echo within a deathly silent room. “Green,” Makoto answers.

Monokuma smiles, sharp and feral. “Incorrect.”

The press goes splat.


	3. xii. breezeblocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _she may contain the urge to run away / hold her down with soggy clothes and breezeblocks / cetirizine, your fevers gripped me again / never kisses, all you ever send are full stops._  
  
loop thirteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please heed the tags, they apply to this chapter—this is the breaking point.

“Why did you stop me?” 

There is something dark bubbling up in his soul. It’s relfected in his eyes, dull green, hardened with frustration. Sayaka trembles, as he glares.

There’s hate within his gaze, twisting and curling within his heart. Scenes echo in his mind, tainted with bitterness.

(_“I’m sorry,” He remembers her voice, as watery as her eyes. All she could do was apologize, as she left through her tears._)

“I-I,” she stammered it, tears alighting her sapphire eyes, betraying her emotions. “Makoto,” Confusion, pain, disbelief—it raged in her like a storm. A memory, slightly worn with time, comes to mind.

A crane. A boy with a kind smile. Hands littered with scratches, but he didn’t care—only beamed as the animal was able to move on its own. His eyes were soft.

Now, they looked different, the gleam in them all wrong. All of this was **wrong**, and her hands trembled, eyes fixated on the knife. Her voice broke, the tears escaping her, leaving tracks in their place. The red on his wrists flows slowly.

“Makoto, _why?_” 

The laugh he gives is high and bitter. Hysterical, tinged with something akin to _madness_.

Tinged with something akin to _**despair**_.

It was disjointed, unsettling. All sayaka could do was stare, denial in her veins. Everything about this was wrong—layers upon layers of pain and madness and _manic desperation,_ making his eyes grow opalescent. Wrong.

Lurking underneath, was hope, back lit in his eyes. It swirled in his heart, fighting. He didn’t know what he was fighting.

He laughed like it was the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He got between giggles, “Weren’t you planning on framing me for murder, anyways?” Her eyes widen, and she shook her head, taking a step back. She wants to deny it, but fear grips her, and she knows she can’t. Not with that tone, that tone so _sure, _so _broken_. “Weren’t you just **using** me, waiting to _throw me away?_”

His voice was rushed out between pants, cutting through her silence with a frenzied noise, desperation coating them from the inside out. “If you're just going to throw me out, if I can’t do anything about it, if this hell is just going to last forever—! _Sayaka, __I’d rather not exist at all.”_

She almost couldn’t recognize him—the same boy who trembled as he promised, voice wavering, to get her out of here, just hours before. 

(_Hollow words, but genuine, just an empty promise to her ears. Why would she believe that? Why would she believe that his hands were more capable than her own?_)

(_She did not heed them. She couldn’t. She had learned long ago it was foolish to rely on promises and hope—the only one she could count on was herself._)

“I’m..” she was out of her depth, wavering and confused. “I’m not going to throw you away,” she wet her lips, nervous, “I- I promise, makoto.”

“_Liar!_” It was more of a sob than a snarl, “I know you’re lying! You’ve done it before!” Tears blurred his vision, as ugly cries build up in his throat, burning. His snot ran, gross, disgusting, and the knife shook in his hands. “No matter what I do, you always-! You a-always....” His voice died off, and sayaka took a hesitant step forward. She didn’t understand. Didn’t know what he was taking about. She set it aside, ignoring the gnawing dread in her stomach. 

“Makoto.” Her voice was deceptively calm, something icy settling in her chest. Her face was devoid of a smile, and dark satisfaction twisted in makotos chest. His wide eyes focused on her, wild and unsure, reflecting her beating heart, and the fluttering nausea. “Makoto, put down the knife.”

He blinked, looking down, as if he forgot he had it. Something wry and far away twisted onto his face. “The same knife...” he whispered it, “this is the same knife you _stabbed me with.”_

Delusional, sayaka concluded. **Dangerous**. It reminded her of her stalker fans, self deluded into thinking her theirs. She tried to focused on calming him down, getting him to drop the knife. He was unstable, something twisting and twisting within him, and she knew it. Even when she didn’t know what happened, what caused this (_her, it has always been her-_) she knew that his mental state was far from sound. An undercurrent of something ran through her voice, he belatedly realized. “Makoto.”

It was fear. She was afraid of him.

(_Good_, something snarled.)

“I never stabbed you.”

Something snapped, the final twist needed, something broken.

”Yes, you did!” It was yelled, ripped from his vocal cords, “Yes, _you did!_” His hand tangled in his hair, knife brushing against his cheek as he moved with jerking movements. It bled, streaking down his face, down his neck, staining the green of his jacket with rust. Staining _him_ with rust.

Sayaka pounced, knocking him down. Her nimble fingers wrapped around his wrists, holding him there. Blood coated her palms, slick and slightly sticky. “Makoto, makoto-!” She tried to calm him, as she planted her legs on either side, wrestling away his control, trying to pry out the knife from his fingers. 

“_No!_” Panic filled him, images of events that never were flashing through his head. He struggled, desperately, fear flooding his senses, logic failing him. The whisper ringing in his head, since this started—_stop__ this, you’re hurting her, you’re __**scaring**__ her—_drowned out by his adrenaline.

It was a blur. He bucked up, bucked her off, a tangle of limbs and desperate movements. But it ended all too soon, all too suddenly.

“Hrck—” she choked, pain and disbelief twisting her features into something unfamiliar, “M-Makoto,” she coughed up blood, starting to slump over.

Makotos eyes unclouded, widening with horror.

“S-sayaka—” he whispered it, afraid, desperate, he was always so _desperate_, “s.._sayaka_.”

She tried to smile at him, but her features were twisted up in pain, more of a grimace than anything. “_Sayaka–!_” His hand flew to his mouth, tears streaming down quietly. “N-no..” 

This couldn’t be. He couldn’t have done the thing he’s been so desperate to stop.

_No wonder she killed me,_ some broken thing speaks within him, _look at what we did._

“It’s- It’s not my fault...” he breathes it, “I didn’t mean to... I-I didn’t mean to.”

“M-makoto..” she coughs from where she slid down, against the wall, “Makoto.” 

“I’m sorry- _I’m sorry_—” And suddenly, he can’t breathe, at that, air sucked into his lungs too fast. Hyperventilating, acid filling his mouth, hand pressed against his it as he tried to swallow it down. The look she gives him will haunt him, forever.

“Its- it’s okay, i-it’s okay, makoto, _breathe_.” 

But it’s not okay. They both know it.

Still, he stops his frantic breaths, stilling himself. It’s caught in his throat, trapped, the air he was just previously rushing out. He nods, and she smiles weakly.

”H-hey, m-makoto...” tears are blurring in her eyes, “I-I’m going to d-die, aren't I?”

“...I’m sorry.” Acid burned in his mouth. (He sounded like _she_, did, back then, when—)

Her eyes closed, and she breathed out a sigh. “C-could you do me a favor? C-could you st-stay with me, until the end?” Her eyes open again, filled with salt, locking with his own. “I... I- don’t want... to die alone.”

(_Lonely people, _something in him reminds.)

Slowly sitting down, he nods, face pinched up. He folds her hand with his own shaking ones, honey and cream. There’s something painful in his heart.

He doesn’t run. She always runs, but he doesn’t. He can’t, not when he’s chained to her in this way, metal cutting into his soul, branding him.

She is always moving forward, but he is tethered.

She smiles at him, gratefully, pain still etched in her face. She shouldn’t, shouldn’t look at him that way. Closing her eyes, she exhales. She almost looks peaceful, this time.

Her chest doesn’t rise again.

Makoto screams until his voice gives, sound proof walks silencing him.

Somewhere, someone surely laughs.

* * *

Its a short trial.

He doesn’t speak. He only looks on, with dead eyes, unseeing. He doesn’t even _try_ to defend himself.

He can’t.

They're right. 

The cut on his cheek speaks for itself, the lifelessness of his eyes. They found her in his room, found him holding her empty body. They all know, they all understand.

He’s a murderer.

He never thought he’d be a murderer. 

Maybe this was what they sensed in him, every other time they sent him to his death. This potential, lurking under the surface, in a place he couldn’t reach, couldn’t see—until now. Maybe that’s why, sayaka rammed a knife through his gut.

Did this make them even?

He had the odd urge to laugh, but his lips wouldn’t even twitch. He was too far away, floating. Kyouko said something about shock, but it didn’t reach.

He was on the outside looking in. 

He didn’t belong here. He never did—not with this fake, unreliable talent. Not with this uncertain nature, this inability to save the ones he loved.

Not with this blood on his hands.

Not with this memory of death in his eyes.

Togami calls him pathetic, in the background. Demands he speak, defend himself—demands he stop ignoring him. It’s almost funny, how self involved he is, how inflated his ego is. He didn’t matter that much, in the end. None of them did. 

They certainly weren’t the reason his voice was failing him. 

(_It should have been him, instead of her, _something dark whispers, born from the snap in his heart. _It should have been anyone of them_. The words are alluring, more than they were safe to be. Makoto fractured, just a bit more.)

A huff escapes his lips, humorlessly. “What’s so funny?” Someone demands, but makoto could only shake his head, something wry and bitter crawling up his lips.

Leon glares, scoffing. “What kind of pathetic guy kills a defenseless girl?” 

And- and that’s so fucking funny, isn’t it? It’s so fucking funny, and makoto can’t help but laugh, and laugh, and _laugh_, until tears sting his eyes, and he gasps and gasps for air, _suffocating_. “That’s- thats hilarious,” He rasps, “thats fucking _hilarious_, coming from you!” He laughs again, until it gives way to sobs.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _FUCK!”_ He yells out into the now silent courtroom, “Why, why, why, _why?!_” He’s chanting it like a mantra. “Why did this happen— _why is this happening!”_

(_Because you can’t let go. Because you’re too desperate and clinging, too pathetic to. Because you’re scared of dying alone, you’ve always been scared of dying alone. _

_Because she left you to die alone as you begged her to stay, and you will never, ever, be able to move on from that._)

He collapses against the podium, hands covering his face, muffling his cries, hiding his dull eyes from view. His sleeve slips, a red, scabbed over line, parallel with his veins. Kyouko inhales sharply.

“I see.” She finally found the motive for this case, finally finds the missing link.

(Blood on sayakas palm. A shaky cut on his wrists. Bruising, faint, still just developing. A smile on her face and tears in her eyes.)

(It doesn’t matters, after the fact. The conclusion she reached won’t change reality. The thought is rancid.)

(_For a second, he really hates her._)

* * *

“That’s the truth of this case.” Kyouko summarized, Makoto’s cries long since silent, eyes red and dry and puffy. The whole courtroom was silent.

Even monokuma was silent.

Kyouko broke it once more, brazenly, “Makoto tried to kill himself, and sayaka tried to stop it. This was the result of that struggle.”

Makoto lifted his head, something swimming in his gut, reflected in his green. He looked at her, desperately, pleadingly. Her eyes were too soft for him, too pitying, and he looked away. Normally, they were cold, like a steel vault. But now, they looked sad. 

He hated it. He hated those eyes that looked through him, twisted up with an emotion he’s come to hate most of all.

(He didn’t want to die, not really—he wouldn’t have done it. He was just overwhelmed in the moment, weakness making his hands reach for her knife, after blankly staring at it, for a whole minute. It was just weakness, that had him bring it to his room, put it to his wrists and wonder if he could still feel pain. Wonder if he died, it would all be over—his body discovered before sayaka could go through with her plan. But he didn’t want to die, not really. He never did.)

(He was sure they didn’t understand that. They couldn’t, when his own heart was a mystery to him, too.)

“The blackened of this case...” makoto looked at his hands, fixating on where the blood used to be, before gentle hands wiped it away. Who was it that did that, again? “...is Makoto Naegi.”

Who showed him such tenderness? He doesn’t know.

(Was it Kyouko? ‘Junko,’ who smiled at him with something fond in her eyes? Chihiro, with their bleeding heart and kind nature? He didn’t know. Didn’t know who could take the time to take care of him, in this mess. Didn’t know who would bother, after what he’s done. Didn’t know if it even mattered, in the end.)

(_Didn’t know anything, in the end._)

The bear says it’s voting time. Numbly, he presses his own face, hollowed like the doll he made of her. The machine chimes. The smile he sees reflected back at him feels mocking, the guilty verdict taunting, yet again.

This time, the answer is right.

He wishes it wasn’t.

(_But it is. Its a fact he can’t change, a cruel truth, that would only hold water._)

(_Reality was unforgiving, tormenting his mind. __He wished for her honeyed lies, amidst it, a make believe world in which she loved him, hands clean, a pure porcelain white._)

* * *

“What’s sayakas favorite color?” It asks.

“Lilac,” he answers, “like Kyoukos hair.”

“_Wrong~!” _Monokuma sings it once more.

That’s fine, he thinks.

He’ll get it right eventually.

(**Splat**.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. Loop thirteen, huh?
> 
> UH. Not sure if I’m quite happy with this either—but it’s mainly like, I’m not sure if this is the right chapter place to put it? Since I’m going to write the loops out of ordered, I’m debating what places to put what loops, right? But I think putting this here is a nice contrast to the last chapter, you get to see how different his mindset is to before! Or something? This is really just... makotos big crack tm. Breaking under the pressure.
> 
> I’m ,, going to get into the time travel function, soon I think! The next chapter or the one after it? Also brush up on the morality of makoto letting the world ‘reload/reset’ so to speak.
> 
> Anyways! The first murder done by makoto—and it’s sayaka. To be fair, it _was_ an accident. Still, with junkos rules, still counts.... but he didn’t really intend to kill her, you know? He didn’t go in there with the intention to kill. It was kinda like Manga!Leon’s situation, with it being just a stroke of bad luck. (Of course, Leon was trying to calm _sayaka_ down, but it’s still similar enough to mention it. I do want to say that, makoto wasn’t being as much of a dumb dumb as Leon: he didn’t break down the door violently and invade the space where sayaka felt safe. That’s not the best way to calm someone down, buddy! Just talk to her through the door! I love manga!leon, but– my god, that was dumb. He was almost killed though so I guess I’ll give him a pass :/)
> 
> That’s not to say makoto is incapable of _deliberately_ killing someone. He’s just not there yet, he’s just not... broken.... enough.... yet...... oh god, I sound like junko, don’t I? That or shirogane. 
> 
> <strike>Shirogane Tsumugi was just a call out post for fanfic writers who break their favorite characters, wasn’t she? You can just dm me next time, dr!</strike>
> 
> This chapters actually been written for a while! I just got distracted, because I’ve redownloaded MysticMessenger again.... (just finished jaehees route and I. Love her.)
> 
> I’m also not super confident with this writing? I’m afraid I’m not conveying everything I want to. But, well.... its also I feel like people will get upset if I write something they didn’t like? Like, if thy don’t like the direction I’m headed. I just have to remind myself that I’m writing this to the best of my ability at this time, and it’s _my_ story. I’m making these choices and writing it, and what matters is ignored I’m happy with it. I didn’t get a lot of praise growing up, so I know I crave that, especially when it comes to my writing, since... I’ve only really had one (1) teacher compliment me, strangers online, & my friends. Literally when my teacher said I had talent in the first grade, I latched onto that. I like to believe it’s because I wanted to write, and recognized that from the first time I did so, but it did have to do with the fact that, well.... that was the first time I was told I was good at something. That’s not all their is to it, I love writing! I love stretching my imagination and creating these worlds... I knew that before she said I was good at it, I felt that warmth and excitement. But those words... they cemented it, I think. I want to be praised, you know? It’s human nature. And sometimes, that makes me nervous, because I’m not sure if how I take my story, or what I write, will off put the readers that I have, the ones who comment and compliment me. I love feedback, but sometimes I’m afraid of disappointing anyone who has given me that feedback, you know? I feel like I’m writing these chapters quicker than normal, and having less writer block with this story, but I’m still hesitanting to post. I edit stuff a lot, but the think I’m uncertain of reception on is just.... the way this story is going? I don’t want to change it, though. I refuse to compromise on that, on this! This story, a lot of my stories, they’re so important to me. I put pieces of my soul into them. And I’m not going to change that, I’m not going to water myself down. I’m going the way I chose, in my writing. Because this is the story I want to tell. 
> 
> That reminds me, I made a rough playlist for this universe, actually! I think it helps with inspiration tbh & it’s on Spotify so I can listen to it when writing! I’ll probably move an edited version to playmoss...
> 
> Playlist link: https://open.spotify.com/user/buttercupghost/playlist/2ybnKkcC46AMTJJUn8OoPX?si=C_Q0_yP6QTe7Mr1bMK_Ayg


	4. vi. the beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _i’m sick and i'm tired too / i can admit i am not fireproof / i feel it burning me / i feel it burning you / i hope i don't murder me / i hope i don't burden you._
> 
> loop six.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 07/15/20: minor editing with spelling errors & capitlization

This isn’t a romance. This is a tragedy built on love-bleached bones.

* * *

“I think I’m selfish,” it slips out of his mouth unbidden, and Kyouko looks up. Her gaze locked and guarded, face carefully neutral—a steal vaunt betraying none of her emotions. “What?” She asks, staring. 

He blushes, eyes shifting down, away from her face, that scrutinizes him intensely. “I...” He realizes, suddenly, that saying such a thing in a murder game, may not be the best idea. He bites his lips, nervous energy pounding, flavored like dread, in his heart. “I don’t...” A head shake, trying to get his hazy thoughts in order.

“Naegi,” Her voice is firm, prompting. He shook his head. “I’m not... I’m not planning a murder or anything, Ky-Kirigiri-san,” he took a forceful breath, “I just... it doesn’t have to do with. Murder, really.”

Her eyes bore into him. “Tell me.”

It’s more of a order, than a request. Somehow, that’s almost a comfort to him. After last loop— after the concern, the... pity, the _pity_. Its almost worse than the scorn, of the other times.

But it’s curiousity reflected in her eyes, dark and focused, not pity. Intense, determination grim within it. She always seemed so decisive—straight forward. Even with her avoidance of things, her poker face, she never lied about them. After loops of uncertainty, stumbling around by himself, drowning in her lies, Makoto almost wants to obey.

But nervousness claws at him. He knows without a second of thought that he’ll lie. Guilt bites into him, but… he knows he won’t be able to say it, be honest.

He’s better at lying, now. The thought shouldn’t comfort him.

“Ah... I mean, with Sayaka.” A truth, not a outright falsity, that he weaves to steer her off his trail—to stop her from asking questions he doesn’t know how to answer. “I’m...” He tries to put it into words, but he can’t. No matter how he tries, it fails him.

Makotos own feelings are a enigma to even him.

“...I want...” He tried not to shake. Kyouko still stares at him, intense. His breath stutters. “I don’t want her to leave me. I don’t want her to betray me.”

His eyes are wide, his heart beating. It feels like the air has been stolen from his lungs, and yet he wants to laugh. Kyoukos form relaxes, slightly. “I don’t think that’s unreasonable.” She pauses, digesting her words. “But it’s only been a few days. That’s too much attachment.”

He wants to be mad at that. It’s been longer than that, and even with that short time, he has grown attached to her, originally. She was a ghost that he knew wouldn’t stop haunting him.

But the truth was, Makoto was just wary.

Everyone just says the same things. Does the same things. It felt like it wasn’t real, at all. He wanted to tell her that. Wanted to tell her that nothing was starting to feel real. Wanted to tell her he wasn’t quite there.

“Maybe,” He says instead, “Does it matter?”

She doesn’t answer, only looking at him with too keen eyes. He knows his own eyes look too desperate, too pleading, tempered to dull by the tiredness in his soul. But there’s a hopelessness blanketing him that’s almost a comfort, warm and miserable, lined with apathy. A well worn sweater. It was summer.

It almost felt ridiculous to wear a jacket, when his own soul scorched him.

“Does any of this matter?”

_Does any of this even.... mafter at all? It’ll all be gone soon, reset to the beginning._

The colors are too vivid to process.

* * *

He looks in the mirror, gripping the sink. His knuckles hurt, his hands shaking. It didn’t matter. _It didn’t matter_.

He still didn’t know her favorite color.

“...It doesn’t matter.” It rings in the air like a lie. He knows Monokuma is laughing at him.

Sayaka knocks on his door.

* * *

.......

Here’s how things are: Makoto Naegi is selfish, and Makoto Naegi is naive.

He’s used to giving. He’s used to listening to everyone’s issues, used to fixing it for them, help them sort it out. Makoto is used to being relied on, and trusted.

Its a nice feeling, and he likes helping people. Hes always has; it’s why, even when he thinks no ones looking, he saves a crane from a pond with a smile, even as it pecks his hands, tiny cuts that bleed red. It’s just what he does—he likes being kind. 

(_Even if he bleeds._)

Some people say that it’s selfless of him, to help people like this. But that’s not it at all. He’s not sacrificing anything—he’s not giving up anything he wants to hold onto. In those hazy, peaceful days, he’s just existing. He likes helping, likes making people happy. It’s nice to be useful, to be helpful. It makes him feel needed.

Is that selfishness, too?

Not completely, he doesn’t think. He knows that he _would_ sacrifice for people, if he needed to, and he knows he just likes when they’re happy—he knows he doesn’t want people to suffer, he never has. He likes to think that, within himself, selflessness existed too, a motivator.

Maybe it was like that for everyone, a tangle of yarn, labeled opposites, yet so hard to tell apart.

Sayaka was a independent individual. Even with everything he offered, she never took his hand, never relied on him like he did her.

And that hurt.

It hurt. It hurt that she’d chose her band, her dream, her life, over him. It hurt that she didn’t have faith in his words, only counting on herself. It hurt that she played him like a fiddle, hurt that she didn’t tell him, wasn’t honest. It hurt that he wasn’t enough.

He would never be _enough_.

It was a thought that wiggled in his mind: inferiority. It felt like he was always confided in, and then brushed over. It felt like he was always used. It felt like he was always deceived. 

Like her pawn in this game, to commit murder, to frame it on him.

(_He didn’t mind being used. But the lies on her tongue, coating his brain, sting him like thorns._)

Was it unreasonable of him, to want her to count on him? To have her know he was _there_ to be counted on? The answers alluded him, like always. Was it unfair?

Maybe all they were, was deprived, desperate kids, selfish as any other. Human DNA, mixing and blending the lines between—between this bittersweet love, and his own heart. He can’t figure it out, can’t figure out his own feelings, own motivations, too complex to grasp. Why did he ever think he could understand hers, when his very own alluded him?

Selfish. Selfless.

Two sides of the same coin, in the end, and Makotos pockets were full.

He tells himself he isn’t afraid of Sayaka, as he opens the door to his room.

(And that’s a lie, too.)

* * *

_It’s a scene that played in his dream last night._

_Sayaka plays with his hair, holding the strands between her fingers. It’s a nice dream, as they calmly look towards the sky, the grass below them, flowers around. It’s fitting, how his head lays completely in her lap, and she holds it was delicate hands. It’s slotted there like it belongs. _

_Like they were made for each other, pieces clacking clumsily together._

_“Hey, Sayaka? What are the flowers here?” She giggles, airy and angelic, almost breathless. “Oh, those are spiderlilies and myosotis, as well as chrysanthemums,” She frowned, “I think there’s a hydrangea tree around here, too.” He hums in response, smiling at her. She peers down at him and grins brightly, the sun back lighting her. For a split second, it feels more like a memory._

_Before he can grasp onto the thought, lucidity—something is suddenly wrong. Her eyes are darkened, spark fading. The light of the sun has been replaced with a inky blackness, more deep and vast than any night sky. A droplet of blood runs down her lips, eyebrows drawn in pain. “M...Makoto,” she gurgles. “Help.”_

_Something sinking tightens in his stomach. It’s something that shouts, this is your fault. You couldn’t stop this._

_Even now you know nothing of her._

_It rings too true to his ears, and he cries out, lurching backwards. Blood dribbles down his hair, from where it gathered her color from her stomach. The stab wound is the same as before, but the knife is missing._

_Standing from where her dying light laid, he choked. The smell of blood was bitter and pungent, disgusting and copper, distinctly chrome like. It was too much, to see the wound opened, draping out blood at a rate he knows, deep in his heart, she won’t survive._

_She never does. _

_She smiles at him, waving her hand as if to beckon him closer, as if nothing was wrong. Her laugh is breathless, carrying something sinister, tone as sweet and honeyed as the lies she spews. _

_Except the greatest weapon, the most painful, has always been the truth._

_“What’s wrong? You almost seem like you’ve seen a ghost. Shouldn’t you be used to seeing me, considering how many times you’ve let me die?” _

_He shakes his head, blinking, as if that could rid him of her afterimage. “No, I didn’t—”_

_She glared sharply, something acidic and bitter in her gaze. “You let me die.” It’s less stated like an accusation, and more of a statement, all harsh edges. “You let me waste away, a corpse. When are you going to stop this? It’s pathetic, you know. To cling on like this.”_

_Makoko gulps, drowing. The spector frowns, “But then again, you’ve always been pathetic, haven’t you?”_

_He stays silent, and she huffs. “What are you hoping to accomplish, with this selfish indulgence? Do you really think you can save her? Are you so arrogant, that you’d let her die and suffer for your mistakes, your wants? Over and over again? Do you even know what you’ve done?”_

_The silence drags on. Makoto can’t bring himself to look at her. He knows if he does, he’ll see disappointment. _

_“I don’t want her to die.” He defends himself. Makoto didn’t want anyone to._

_“Selfish,” the double snarled, all furious hiss and destain, “You may try and tell yourself you’re doing it for her, but the truth is, you just can’t let go. The truth is, you just don’t want to be alone.” _ _Her voice rings out, a one hundred percent mark. Her grade is as perfect as ever._

_“You’re_ _ repulsive, _ _makoto.”_

_It rings out in his head, and stings like any other truth._

_All her answers are marked as correct._

* * *

(The knife cuts through him like butter. Sayaka is apologizing, tears and fear relfected in her eyes, as she repeats herself. She didn’t have a choice. She needed to get out. She was sorry, so, so sorry.)

(He begs her to stay, but she leaves anyways.)

* * *

When most people lay in a pool of their own blood, clutching their bleeding stab wound, trapped in a sound proof room, they think. They think about their life, on the good times, on the bad, and with starting clarity, come to the most cruel conclusion: _I don’t want to die._

Lonely people are different. Their life still flashes, memories colored in nostalgic hues, bittersweet and melancholic. They focus on the blank spaces, the missing people and the days they’d spend just staring at the rain. One word off, fixated on something else entirely.

In a life full of white space, the conclusion they come to is just as cruel: _I don’t want to die **alone**._

Makoto Naegi longs for the company of his killer, a fool even as red seeps through his fingertips.

He really didn’t think she’d actually do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had this done for so long (August 9th, if archive is to be believed) and literally just needed to edit it, but then, well. Shit happened, basically. I had a bad reaction to my meds and relasped, basically I was spiraling for a while there. I also wasn’t talking about it and was just soaking in it, I guess? Since then I wrote some vent things, which helped, but then something else happened (personal) and, well... I guess it got me thinking of life again? And I know I have to actually do things. Not just feel bad, even if that’s hard to do. Or more like. I have to survive, I can’t let life kick my ass. I’ve always wanted to do things, I have ambition. I was sorted into slytherin for gods sake, that’s defined by their ambition and cunning! So, I’ve got to sit my ass down and do what I do best! Plan, and survive. Think my way through it. I can’t just... sit around and wait for other people to make me feel fulfilled. I can’t just rely on everyone else. Because the sad truth is that people let you down, or they leave, and you just have to deal with it. I’ve been dealing with crap for years - and I won’t let that crap win. I’ll sruvive this, I’ll survive it all, because that’s what I do best. That’s what I have to do best. There’s no other option. 
> 
> So. I sat down, I sucked it up, and I edited this. I’m still self conscious about if it says what I want to, conveys it - I want to challenge what you think you know about time travel, I want to show how it can affect a person, and the morality of it. Show how it’s not so straight forward, because it’s harder to confine things to black and white than we think. Is what makotos doing right? It’s certainly not healthy - not for him. For other people? Is it fair to put sayaka through this, over and over, when in some loops, she even seemed at peace with her death? Is it fair to undo all her choices, the only thing she really has agency on, over and over? Or is it selfish? _Why_ is he doing this? Is it really because he selflessly wants to save them... or because he selfishly wants to keep them? Is there a difference? Does it matter? Just because he has this power, should he use it? Is it his _responsibility_ to use it, to save everyone, just because he has it? Is that fair to them, to him, to anyone in this? Are the end results all that really matter here? I want to leave you unsure. I want to leave you with that lingering question. Is this really right? Is this more harmful than helpful? It would be great if makoto could save everyone. But is that his responsibility? Can he even do such a thing? Is it selfish to keep trying when he can’t?
> 
> When do you keep holding on, and when do you let go?
> 
> This is something I’m struggling with, to. Even with good intentions, you can cause damage. Even with bad ones, you can help. And it’s possible to be both selfless and selfish in your actions. So what does it mean? For what reason are you acting?
> 
> It’s clumsy. This writing is clumsy in what it’s trying to provoke, and say, but it’s mine. These are my words, my story. This is where I’m at with these words. Even if it’s clusmy, it’s better than not saying anything at all, agonizing over my writing until I just don’t post it, or abandon it completely. It’s rather sad to leave a story unfinished, even if it’s clumsy. And I’d rather like to get these thoughts out, these feelings, and convey them through makoto like this. It feels rather topical, for this point in my life: the concept of when to hold on, and when to let go, and the thought that you can never really know if what you’re doing is right, or how to even measure that metric, outside of the obvious. How much of a obligation do you have to help? What should you be required to do? I struggle. I want to make the world a better place, but it’s so hard to do so. I want to make the people I care about happy, but that can’t always be something I can do, or that I’m responsible for. And that’s the thing: how much are you really responsible for? And how can you make sure your attempts to help don’t hurt instead? Can you really apply your own standards and view of the world to others? It’s hard to say. It’s hard to even know what the means. I don’t even know how to say it, right, make everyone understand. But I think that’s okay, too. These words are mine, and I’ll say them, as clumsy as they may be. And I hope the subtlety plays through here, too - subtle enough but still recognizable, although this chapter may spell it out too clear. I think... makoto is a biproduct of everything I’ve been wondering, for a while now.


End file.
